Karmardav's Illustration

Like most things, the idea is always better than the illustration. But since you asked, Karmardav, I am more than happy to oblige. It is simple, yes, but it also fabulously shiny. And we like shiny.

A Damn Near Perfect Day

Today was the day that Norma treated me to lunch in the Manhattan eatery of my choice to commemorate my 20th anniversary with the company. I always enjoy lunch with Norma; we can have a drink, we can linger and talk about things outside of work and she appreciates good food as much as I do. In the end, I chose Balthazar as my restaurant of choice and at the appointed hour, we arrived there. It was a balmy spring day and Norma was in fine relaxed mettle. The restaurant itself was fully realized French bistro; oversized distressed mirrors, stacks of rustic loaves of bread wedged into metal baker shelves, rows of interesting patrons in European eye wear cohabitating in intimate leather banquettes. Fabulous.

We sidled into a small table space and immediately perused the cocktail menu. I ordered a cocktail that combined champagne, Sauternes and something else. It was delish. For the appetizer, Norma ordered a frisee salad with a soft poached egg and fat chunks of bacon.I had a cerviche that was almost perfect: captured in a nest of a radicchio leaf, there were rings of calamari, chunks of lobster, sections of shrimp, some clam and crab, all dressed in a citrus vinaigrette, dotted with diced red and yellow pepper and capers, tossed with impossibly fresh cilantro. It was sublime and I could have eaten just that. But of course I didn't.

Norma and I both ordered a classic steak pomme frites as our entree. The steak wasn't perfect (and granted, I did select the flank steak version), but the combination of the meat with the crisp fries and herbed butter was rather delicious. We sipped a glass of pinot that Norma had selected (and I do trust her palate--she knows her wines) and chatted at leisure. We speculated about a Ralph Lauren magazine-ad-worthy-family situated next to us (caveat: they had Southern--I'd venture Texan--accents). Clearly monied people, they were interesting. We talked about a lot of things. I do love this especially about Norma--I never have to censor myself with her.

We finished the meal with a duo of double expressos and shared a meringue and mixed berry dessert. Norma gifted me with my company anniversary offering--a classic Tiffany bracelet. We then left the restaurant with full bellies and as we stepped outside, saw the weather was accommodating. In fact all around us we could see that volatile muse Spring was staring to flex her muscles. We decided to walk all the way back to the office. I'm glad we did. The forsythia was fluttering golden blooms. Cropped bushes were sprouting infant greens. Bulbs had broken ground and were crowning with future hyacinths and tulips. Daffodils were poised with lowered heads. A particularly magnificent magnolia tree situated outside an old church was on the precipice of erupting into a ritious explosion of curved pink seduction. It was a thrill to take in this beauty around us and we walked at a satisfying pace back to our workspace in Chelsea.

What an absolutely lovely day.

How Times Have Changed

So baseball's opening day is here this week and the boys of summer begin their pastoral invasion of the sports season. Ahh. 'Tis fine.

The advent of the momentous season opener in New York sparked a nostalgic hoo haw about the soon-to-be-late-Yankee Stadium. In case you're not aware of the fact, the storied Yankees Stadium--the proverbial House that Ruth Built (and DiMaggio, Gerig, Mantle et al)--is enjoying its last full season before it is ceremoniously replaced by the NEW Yankee Stadium. The new Yankee Stadium, which is situated just astride of the legendary edifice, is under breathless and hurried construction. The City had planned a great deal of fuss as this storied sports venue hosts the final Yankees season and Lord knows, the media will wring much sentimental slop out of it before the final pitch is hurled off the well worn pitchers mound. This year's All Star Game will be at Yankee Stadium. When The Pope makes his New York visit this year, he will hold a mega-Mass at Yankee Stadium. People will bid obscene amounts of coin to possess a part of the old Yankee Stadium bleachers. We are a sentimental people.

Now if you know me (and if the cynicism reflected above doesn't make it apparent), you know I am NOT a Yankees fan. I'm a dyed in the wool National League girl and a solid Mets supporter. However what I do appreciate is a traditional and dare I say, a hallowed ball field. I deeply respect the traditions and lore of the famous ball parks: Comiskey Park, Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, the old Polo Grounds, Ebbets Field, Tiger Stadium, Shea Stadium. Alas these revered bookmarks of American Sporting History have evolved to adapt to the modern consumptive habits of current American culture....to the detriment of the tradition we were all spoon fed on.

Case in point: I find it appalling beyond all measure that ballparks are named for the corporate entity that underwrites them. The notion of PETCO Park, BankOne Ballpark, 3Com Park, Forbes Field, Coors Field...it just seems so patently wrong. It spoils the pristine spectacle that was defined in American culture as baseball. While I fully understand that any organization relies on corporate subsidization in order to thrive (and y'know, pay huge contracts to players), it robs us of the everyman perception that is the hallmark of the sport. Baseball was one of the first sports to incorporate an African American league of players (and to introduce us to--among many--Satchel Paige, Josh Gibson and Buck O'Neil). It was a past time accessible to all socioeconomic stratas; the bleacher seat offered you as clear a vantage point as the first base line lower level box seat.

There's a solemn history about baseball that demands respect. To cheapen a stadium with the name of a company that manufactures power tools is undermining the natural order of things. We need to honor the pioneers of the industry and sentiment should compel the leaders of industry to follow suit. Surely 3M would benefit from the halo value of a Branch Rickey Park or a Jackie Robinson Field? Or would this company, historically rooted in innovation (let's not forget that 3M started as a mining company) prefer to have their venue associated with stick-it notes and duct tape? I don't get it.

Most appalling is the upscaling of a baseball venue's culinary offerings. If I go to a highly rated eatery in Manhattan, I want to enjoy fine cuisine. I want to savour a superior wine or a Bombay Sapphire martini. But when I go to the ballpark, I want a greasy Polish dog with a slash of mustard and a plastic cup of cold beer. The new ballparks now offer the discriminating attendee sushi bars, plates of tapas and horror of horrors, a martini bar. It represents everything wrong with baseball.

The new Yankee Stadium will offer said amenities and more. What galls me most is the new stadium will feature less seats in the stadium for the everyman and more luxury boxes. If that's not the antithesis of all things baseball, I don't know what is.

Despite all those jokes about where Babe Ruth is buried, wherever he is, I'm certain he's spinning in his grave.

Small Hands

Maybe because it was April Fool's Day, we got rather giddy at the end of the work day. The conversation turned at some point to the Queen Bea's seriously pathological fear of little people, specifically their small hands. Somehow our visitor, the illustrious Diamond Dave, got wind of this information and proceeded to share a rather pecuilar video with The Queen Bea. I knew she viewed it for I could hear her screaming across the entire building. It is pretty bizarre--it even made Hollaback blurt out in surprise. Let me know if "Small Hands" has the same effect on you.

My Other Spouse

Hollaback is gathering all her minions under one roof this week for strategy meetings. Most of her minions are already in Connecticut but one has made the journey from San Francisco for the congregation. Dave is an affable and easy natured fellow. He's also young, single and fancy free so he wisely chose to stay in a hotel in New York for the duration of his visit and not in the local CT Doubletree Hotel. Since the meetings are taking place in Connecticut, he agreed to meet Hollaback and me at my parking garage in the morning for the daily commute to The Nutmeg State.

This morning I arrived at the garage at 7:30 am. Standing on the street outside the garage were Hollaback and Dave already engaged in animated conversation. As I tottered down the street, I saw Morning Ahmet look out of the upstairs window of the garage. He could see I was heading toward the awaiting duo. As I met them, Morning Ahmet gestured down from the window at Hollaback and said, "Is that your husband?" Now poor Hollaback is sometimes called sir (it could be because her hair is short and she's 6 feet tall) and sometimes she'll respond to this address by giving a make-no-mistake-I-am-a-woman-jutting-boob-thrust. Today however, she let it pass.

I didn't. "No," I responded to Morning Ahmet, "that's my wife."

Bless him, he didn't bat an eye.

A Precious Commodity

Tired Nature's sweet restorer, balmy sleep!
He, like the world, his ready visit pays
Where fortune smiles; the wretched he forsakes
- Edward Young 1683 - 1765

I do believe that sleep must be the greatest gift we possess. I have never been a good sleeper. I envy those who nap during the day. The truth is this: I simply do not sleep. I've never napped. And falling asleep each evening is not something that happens normally and easily.

I've had bouts of insomnia my entire life. As a child, I could not fall into a precious deep slumber. My poor parents acknowledged I was a handful trying to lull me off to sleep as a child. As a teenager, I read till late into the evening until I wafted off to sleep. As an adult I battle with half sleeps and fits of REM sleep, but rare is the night that I enjoy a full night's rest. My average is around five hours, but I can do 3-1/2 to 4 hours and feel perfectly fine. I know this is not normal but it's as normal as I ever hope to be.

It wouldn't bother me much save the rings of fatigue that are now tattooed under my eyes. I've tried all the natural methods prescribed to induce sleep--they are hopeless in achieving that blissful transcendental slumber that translates into rest. I won't take pharmaceuticals. It seems a pointless band aid for providing temporary relief when I'm attuned to decades of sleeplessness. I can't imagine a lifetime on Ambien.

Thomas Edison was famously a non-sleeper. His three hours a night resulted in astounding productivity. And let's not forget another notorious insomniac, Alexandre Dumas. He produced 1,200 volumes of literature and claimed to have fathered 500 children - certainly something to think about in those unasked-for extra hours. The key is this--I am no pioneer or historian so I can't presume brilliance will result from my lack of sleep, Yet, there is something oddly comforting knowing that a great person wrestled with the same dumb shit that you do.

So here I lie, sleepless yet again. I'm taking the ritual cup of green tea, soaking my feet in eucalyptus salts, a warm bath and a little NPR on the radio. I keep hoping that it will be the recipe that sends me into an untold slumber.

You know, six hours.

Blue Eyed Girls

I had a rare treat today. The fabulous Jen, she of the delightful food blog Valley Victuals, came to New York City today with her sister. We've been online friends for awhile and while I feel like I know her very well, we've never actually met in person. She and her sister Karen were coming in for the day only--you know, sample some local fare, see a show and catch the sights. She was kind enough to e-mail to see if we could meet up. Could we?! Absolutely.

They hit a local Irish pub (and God knows, this city is rife with them) for what they described as good fare (and I do trust Jen's palate). They then caged tickets for a matinee of "A Chorus Line" which I think they enjoyed. I then cajoled them into meeting me at a jam packed glass encased bar in Times Square. I do like The W Hotel there and their fishbowl center, The Blue Fin. They soon appeared and Jen's face (which I recognized from her blog picture) was unmistakable.

We ordered a round of cocktails: Karen had a passion fruit martini, Jen--a classic Tanquery and tonic. I went for straight chick drink--a lemon drop martini with Absolut Citron. Delish. With all the things we could have talked about, we actually talked about food more than anything else. I admire Jen's recipes and her passion for good food. That she is a fan of Alton Brown raises her stock that much more. She was charming and down to earth and someone I'd hang with often if we lived in the same city. Her sister Karen was also charming, a teacher of sixth grade special education children. They were lovely women and quite good fun. What struck me most were their spectacular eyes. Karen's were ice blue and Jen's were a blue green--the color of sea glass or the surf in the Bahamas. I really enjoyed our visit and was sorry it was so brief.I look forward to their next visit.

Because You Asked, Jules, Part II

Morning Ahmet was more than willing to pose today. I told him a gorgeous woman in Atlanta wanted to see what he looked like.

Really, it takes so little.

Because You Asked, Jules

I went to the garage this morning on a mission. Camera in hand, I set out to capture the elusive Ahmets.

Upon entry at the garage at 7:03 am, I saw part of my mission would be temporarily thwarted. There was a Range Rover navigating the narrow impasse of the garage entrance. Three people were standing around the office entrance with parking voucher in hand. One woman was waiting to ease her Pathfinder out of her parking space but was unable because a stationary Lincoln Towncar was blocking her path. And in the middle of all this bedlam was Morning Ahmet, a frenzy of running movement trying to maneuver cars in this small garage space. It seemed a terrible imposition to ask him to stop and pose today so I merely got into my car (which curiously was positioned so that I could drive out of the garage without visible hazards). I'll try and capture him tomorrow.

The good news is that when I drove into the garage at 7:30 tonight, all was calm. I eased into an available space and Evening Ahmet poked his head out of the office. He was more than pleased to grin for the camera. I'll attempt to conclude this exercise come tomorrow morning.

Jane Austen Would Approve

Urban Word of The Day: twitterpated

Definition:
1) to be completely enamored with someone/something.
2) the flighty exciting feeling you get when you think about/see the object of your affection.
3) romantically excited (i.e.: aroused)
4) the ever increasing acceleration of heartbeat and body temperature as a result of being engulfed amidst the exhilaration and joy of being/having a romantic entity in someone's life.

Example:
When he smiled at her, the rush of warm, fuzzy, excited sensations that filled her made her realize she was completely twitterpated with this man.

Choices, Choices

Yesterday was my twenty year work anniversary. You heard me right. 20 years ago, I joined the company that I work for now although it has changed dramatically over the years and now goes by a different name. The parent company is still the same and I've worked with some of the same people this whole time. It's offered me numerous intriguing challenges over the years which I've thoroughly enjoyed so I've stayed on. Who knew I'd become a potential Lifer?

In commemoration of said milestone I received a tidy check from the parent company, a congratulatory note from my boss Norma (who also joined the company 20 years ago) and a gift of my choice from Tiffany (they of the fabulous blue boxes). Today my Connecticut peeps bestowed on me an enormous bouquet of tulips and a generous gift certificate to be redeemed at the day spa at Sak's Fifth Avenue. And if this wasn't enough fussing, Norma offered me the pieces de resistance: an offer of lunch at the restaurant of my choice in Manhattan. Does it get much better, people?

I couldn't resist the tease so I told Norma I wanted to go to Per Se, Thomas Keller's three star Michelin rated restaurant in Time Warner Center. Keller is the mastermind behind the brilliant restaurant French Laundry in Napa Valley (which is morewines' turf) and Per Se is continuously highly ranked among the best restaurants in New York City. Mindful that the prix fixe menu ran around $275 a person (without wine), I was curious what Norma would say. She very politely demurred and offered me any other choice: what about Nobu or Restaurant Daniel or La Bernadin? In the end, I ventured a place I really did want to eat at: Balthazar. For me, French bistro fare is a winner every time.

This should keep me going for another 20 years.

You Call Her Empress, People!

The Queen of Soul and one of my very favorite singers, Aretha Franklin, played Radio City Music Hall last night. She was not surprisingly a rousing success and won a glowing review from The New York Times. But the evening was not without its controversies. From the opening lead of The Times review:

An announcer hailed Aretha Franklin as the Empress of Music at Radio City Music Hall on Saturday night before reverting to her usual title, the Queen of Soul. Then the large assemblage of musicians wrapped up the opening medley and started into “(Your Love Keeps Lifting Me) Higher and Higher.” And out came Ms. Franklin, moving at a processional pace, in an abundance of glitter and black chiffon. It was a manifest vision of music royalty, whatever sobriquet you choose.

Like any sovereign Ms. Franklin has her pride. She adopted the empress moniker after publicly taking umbrage after this year’s Grammy Awards ceremony (specifically, the part where Beyoncé saluted Tina Turner as “the Queen”). But indignation is the least intriguing thing about her new title, which forsakes the specificity of genre. Ms. Franklin really does have designs on an empire, as the concert intermittently proved.

I encourage you to enjoy this appreciative review, but also to observe the concoction that encased The Empress last night. The voice is otherworldly, but the chiffon sequined mermaid dress (which appeared on the cover of The Arts page at magnified size) left me speechless.

Even majesty needs a stylist.

My Two Ahmets

As an urban dweller, I didn't own a vehicle for a long while. Once I became a reverse commuter it became necessary to buy a car. I enjoy the benefits of car ownership and the convenience of having the means to exit the city on a hot summer day. I enjoy my vehicle.

The moment I drove off the Honda dealership lot, I was determined not to have to deal with street parking. I didn't want to deal with smashed windows by petty thieves, side mirrors sheared off by cars racing down the street, the safekeeping removal of the radio, GPS system and EZ pass holder every time I parked the car, scratches, dings and the other by-products of city streets. And forget having to get up at the crack of day every other day to move it to the other side of the street to accommodate the street cleaners (that's an oxymoron in itself). So on the advice of a trusted officer of our co-op board, I leased a spot at Stable Car Parking.

Located four blocks south of my apartment building, it's an easy walk. For the princely sum of $325 a month, I am assured that my car is safely stored and monitored 24 hours a day. Each night I request its readiness at a certain time the next day and there it is, ready to go on my arrival. It's suffered nary a scratch in the last year and is fiercely protected by the coterie of nice Egyptian men who manage this garage space.

The two attendants that I interface with directly are both called Ahmet. There's Morning Ahmet who is friendly and giddy (the morning rush at the garage does require a certain fearless agility). Regardless, he makes the time to shoot the breeze with me and occasionally will have the car already running on my arrival. If I show up a few minutes early (as I did today), he will chastise me in good natured fashion for throwing him off his schedule. He's somewhat flirtatious and sends me on his way with an effusive wave every day.

Evening Ahmet is much more laid back. He's charming and conversational. When I arrive back at the garage at night, he comes out of the office for a few minutes to chat. He can tell when I've had a bad commute/hair/work day. If I get home later than usual, he will chastise me in good natured fashion for throwing him off his schedule. If I work in New York and don't need the car, I will telephone the garage the night before I need the car again. Evening Ahmet will answer; when I say, "Hello Ahmet," he will immediately say, "It's ready." I don't have to give my account number, I don't have to say my name, I don't have to request a time, he simply just knows.

Of course these two benefit from the largess of the holiday tip. As far as I'm concerned it's the best return I could ever hope to get on a C-Note.

The YouTube Delay

So I love YouTube (as you all well know) but I posted the video below last Thursday and it just posted to my blog today. Good thing I don't actually pay for this service or I'd be, you know, pissed.

Lupe Fiasco - Daydreaming

Hello, people. I've been embroiled for the last eight days in an absolutely intense schedule. I do believe this is the longest period ever that I haven't blogged. The truth is, I was embroiled in a particularly inspired work meeting that required long periods of dedicated time. I didn't watch TV. I didn't read the newspaper. I was truly entrenched. I want to share this experience with you but it won't be tonight. The truth be told, I dragged my ass home from California in the wee hours today, slept for 4 hours, schlepped to work and got home later than I would have wanted. I felt OK, but I looked like the cats ass all day. If you can bear with me till tomorrow, we'll catch up. In the meantime please enjoy this incredible song. On the plane East last night Norma was compiling a list of top hip hop songs for one of her colleagues (and props to her--she is incredibly well versed in some really great current stuff). She turned me onto this fantastic song. Great rift and then you add in the fucking awesome Jill Scott? It totally kicks it.

He Is Risen

Being that it is Easter, Fang found it necessary to keep repeating the above statement today. As in "He is risen. Let there be swine" or "He is risen. Let us boil the rutabaga" or "He is risen. Let us slice the babka." He is such a handful sometimes.

We passed a beautiful Easter day in Queens with The Aunts. Of course there were copious boiled root vegetables (my colon, and only my colon, thanks The Aunts for this cleansing digestive). We brought a ham that was the size of Andre The Giant's head. It was garnished with pineapple slices and maraschino cherries because The Aunts like traditional presentation. We sat around the table and sipped a dubious Hungarian pinot noir that Aunt Bert had won in a Polish church raffle. We took a walk after the meal and passed the multiple brick homes that are a hallmark of Queens. They were decked out with plastic Easter bunnies and shrines to the Virgin Mary. Front facing windows were festooned with poster signs wishing those passing by a Happy Easter in pastel colors. In one disturbing tableau, the window featured a golden lit pulsating cross, a ceramic representation of the Virgin Mary clutching a red heart and the manikin of a toddler dressed as the Easter Bunny. I cursed myself for having forgotten my camera. It was so, so disturbing.

I grew up agnostic so it wasn't until I was in my early teens that I actually realized that Easter had something to do with that cat Jesus. And I never quite figured out why the day they crucified the dude was called Good Friday. I would think that it should have been called Most Unfortunate Friday. Or Bad Friday. Or a really Fucked Up Friday. That's just me, but come on--Good Friday? I am never going to get that.

At the end of the day, I realized that Aunt Stella's birthday was coming up. Aunt Stella is 93 years old and razor sharp in mind and body. She's rarely ill, energenic, mobile and lively. I turned to her and said, "Stella, will you be 93 this May?" She quickly corrected me. "I will be 94, God willing." "My God," said I, "you are a marvel. I can't believe it." "Yeah," she said with a blissful tone, "and if I had known I was going to live this long, I would have taken better care of myself."

I can't make this stuff up. Happy Easter.

Some Lasting Images

Here's some random snaps from the last night of the conference I attended. There was a get together of my core group at the end of the day, followed by a dinner of the entire corporate group followed by some deliciously bad karaoke in an Irish bar. You can piece it together by just looking.

This Was Weird

I was on the subway today. It was a partial express train to downtown. It's Easter weekend so there are not many people on the train. There's the trio of brothers tricking out each other while standing in the doorway. There's the petite older blond swathed in a leopard windbreaker, aviator sunglasses and faux Fendi purse. There's the uber skinny model type scarfing McDonald's Chicken McNuggets. She has thighs that are the size of my calves and eyes that are like saucers. There's the cool lone brother wearing a menacing gray hoodie and getting down with his ipod. There's a Dominican family quartet clutching bibles, nibbling on Easter candy. It feels strange.

Then suddenly the most extraordinary person I've ever seen in my life boards the train. He must be in his 60s. His hair cut is so precise, it looked like a Devo plastic headpiece. He's wearing a gleaming white suit with a bright red pocket square, an American flag pin, a lavender shirt, a startling red tie emblazoned with white doves, vivid purple socks and red faux alligator saddle shoes. He sports a Chaplin-esque moustache and atop his shoulders is a a red cape. I am transfixed by the mere theater of this man sweeping into my subway car. So is the skinny model. He carries with him a red faux alligator bag and during the ride he extracts from it a classic slim silver flask. He gently pours himself a snort between 72nd and 79th Street and knocks it back with drama, exuding a loud "Ahhhh." He engages several other commuters in conversation, all in rapid Spanish with wide sweeping gestures of his arm. Fascinating.

I live in the weirdest place in America. And thank God.

Just When Things Were Getting Back to Normal

This has been the longest period that I've gone without blogging. I've felt the absence, most certainly, but I have been embroiled in intense work efforts over the past week while attending an inspiring and all encompassing corporate meeting. These efforts have completely preoccupied my every waking thought and moment. Beyond that, I was mentally depleted. By yesterday evening piecing together even a simple sentence was a Herculean effort. I pride myself on my resourceful energy which rarely fails me, but by this morning I felt fully and utterly spent.

Returning back to the comfort of my Connecticut office milieu over the past two days, I did feel my usual vigor resume. Welcomed back after my absence by a multitude of well wishing colleagues, I felt re-energized and restored. The normal routine fell into place. All was right with the world.

Late in the morning just as I was moving into my life-as-normal-groove, Hollaback came into my office. She had a sense of urgency about her. Her face was grave. She tried to carefully chose her words and then blurted out the news. The partner of a very close friend of ours in San Francisco had died.

This young man had been with my friend, Mr. Chile, for nearly a decade and they shared a boisterous, happy life together. Mr. Chile had been a widower when he met Tim. Mr. Chile's previous partner Rick had passed away from AIDS only three years prior. We worried for Mr. Chile during that time. He had taken a long time to recover from Rick's death. Yet when he met Tim, he was reborn. They were a joyous and fun couple. Opposite in many ways, they were also perfectly well suited to one another. Tim awakened such love in Mr. Chile and I was certain they'd spend a long future together. Tim was only in his 40s but was predisposed to genetic heart problems. Despite preventative surgery in 2007 and a regimen of diet, exercise and medication, Tim collapsed from a massive heart attack while returning home from work last night. I think it's suffice to say that my friend is devastated. When I spoke to him tonight, he was a lost man. It breaks my heart.

I mourn the loss of the truly exceptional man that Tim was. I passed many happy occasions with Tim and I valued his bawdy humor, his zest for life, his appreciation for the little details in all things, the strange twang of his Midwestern accent, his shared appreciation of good food, wine and amusing people and his solid--in not painfully honest--advice, especially when I needed to hear brutally honest advice. He was a treasure and to be robbed of him so fucking prematurely is a travesty.

I mourn too for Mr. Chile who is a friend I love very much. He's had some serious hardships in his life and this is just another setback he'll have to work through. He will overcome this (as we all do--strange that whole human perseverance thing) but I'm pained that he should have to endure another brutal loss of this magnitude. A human being should have to take just so much in the duration of their lifetime.

I don't know how I'm feeling just now. Check back tomorrow.

I Was Raised On The Dairy, Bitch!

I know I must be tired because this parody of "Jackass" really makes me laugh. This is kind of where my head is at just now...in a good way.

The End of the Road

Pardon the silence---I've been rather busy getting ready for a big day. Today represented the culmination of our group efforts over a 12 month period. We presented the projects that were bestowed on us nine months ago. It was a fearsome and awesome task fraught by some frustrating moments (OK, more than just a few). In the end, the outcome was satisfying and our project sponsor was pleased. More so, his division may be able to implement it in their business. That's all you really hope for, in the end.

After we'd all presented our projects and the day drew to its conclusion, we all repaired to the bar where we cracked a few bottles of champagne. We fondly saluted one another for reaching our final objective of this year long course. We also celebrated friendship. I'll really miss these people when our journey finally wraps on Wednesday.

OK, So I Hate This

I'm here in California for a series of heavy hitter manager meetings. One of the key objectives of my participation here is a presentation for one of the pet projects for the divisional CEOs. We take this task ever so seriously so we've been working feverishly for the past nine months to create a unique value proposition for the parent company. There is pressure; it is hell.

Today, I sat side by side by one of my colleagues and worked five hours straight in order to sew up the presentation. It's come together as it should and by 6 pm, I was feeling as if we'd reach a critical mass. It was ready to project to a larger audience. I was so relieved.

As I returned to my room, I suddenly realized that I was completely exhausted. I mean, crowbar to the kneecaps, doubled over in pain, slap me until I scream "Mama" exhausted. All I wanted to do was put on a pair of sweat pants, tumble into bed and fall into a deep and much needed sleep.

Instead, I went out for what I supposed would be a casual early dinner with my core group homies. I donned a pair of jeans and t-shirt, rolled my hair into a messy bun and scrubbed any make-up on my face. I was muy casual but what the hell? I expected an early night.

Perhaps it's bad karma at its worst for at the restaurant several key senior managers in the organization (not invited to this dinner) strolled into the restaurant and immediately joined the group (and in my head, "oh why, oh why, oh why did I come out looking like a beat down Jerry Springer trailer trash girl?"). Our group made it back to the hotel. Like a tumbleweed, we gathered more colleagues with us along the way. We went to the hotel lounge and there, more very important people attached themselves to us. Is there no relief? Entering into the lobby, there was the last of the mob and we were drawn in; the CFO of the parent company, the COO of the parent company, divisional CEOs..and they all wanted to party with us. And me with dirty hair, no make-up and jeans.

What...fresh...hell.

Moving South From Kansas

My friend Sarah finds the wackiest stuff online. This was on her blog this week and I have to share it. Advanced apologies to our good friends in Oklahoma.

Some Levity

Day Two. We started our project planning meetings at 7 am, went into sessions at 8:30, moved into project presentations at 10:30, spent five hours in project preparation meetings, went to a large group dinner hosted by our parent company CEO and finally stumbled back to our hotel exhausted at 11 pm. And I'm here until next Wednesday.

Upon return to my hotel room, I started plowing through the day's work e-mail. Amongst the pile of electronic correspondence, I happened upon this news item forwarded to me from The Queen Bee. Oh, this just caps the day.

WICHITA, Kansas (AP) -- A 35-year-old woman who sat on her boyfriend's toilet for so long that her body was stuck to the seat had a phobia about leaving the bathroom, the boyfriend said. "She is an adult; she made her own decision," said her boyfriend, Kory McFarren."I should have gotten help for her sooner; I admit that. But after a while, you kind of get used to it."

The case drew nationwide attention after Ness County Sheriff Bryan Whipple said it appeared the Ness City woman's skin had grown around the seat in the two years she apparently was in the bathroom. "We pried the toilet seat off with a pry bar and the seat went with her to the hospital," Whipple said. "The hospital removed it."

McFarren, 36, said he can't be certain how long Pam Babcock stayed in the bathroom because "time just went by so quick I can't pinpoint how long." He said beatings she received in her childhood caused her phobia. "It just kind of happened one day; she went in and had been in there a little while, the next time it was a little longer. Then she got it in her head she was going to stay -- like it was a safe place for her," McFarren said.

But McFarren said she moved around in the bathroom during that time, bathed and changed into the clothes he brought her. He brought food and water to her. They had conversations and had an otherwise normal relationship -- except it all happened in the bathroom.

McFarren said he finally called police February 27 after he became worried because Babcock was acting groggy -- like she didn't know what was going on, except she was awake. What emergency responders found when they went into bathroom has left residents of this small western Kansas town buzzing, and law enforcement officials incredulous. Police found the clothed woman sitting on the toilet, her sweat pants down to mid-thigh. She was "somewhat disoriented," and her legs looked like they had atrophied, Whipple said. "She was not glued. She was not tied. She was just physically stuck by her body," Whipple said. "It is hard to imagine. ... I still have a hard time imagining it myself."

She initially refused emergency medical services, but was finally convinced by responders and her boyfriend that she needed to be checked out at a hospital. "She said that she didn't need any help, that she was OK and did not want to leave," he said.

Whipple said the county attorney will determine whether any charges should be filed against McFarren. McFarren, who works at an antique store, said he has been taking care of Babcock for the 16 years they have lived together. He insisted that he tried to coax her out of the bathroom every day. "And her reply would be, `Maybe tomorrow,"' Whipple said. "According to him, she did not want to leave the bathroom."

She was reported in fair condition Wednesday at a hospital in Wichita, about 150 miles southeast of Ness City. Whipple said she has refused to cooperate with medical providers or law enforcement investigators.

Babcock has an infection in her legs that has damaged her nerves, and there is a possibility she may wind up in a wheelchair, McFarren said. James Ellis, a neighbor, said he had known the woman since she was a child, but that he had not seen her for at least six years. "I don't think anybody can make any sense out of it," Ellis said.

Reunited

This afternoon I arrived in San Jose, California (which, I might add, has become a rather high brow little mecca of upscale chic--who knew?!). My colleagues (those who have been become deeply valued pals during this 13 month program) convened from all global points in this sleepy burg. There were hugs all around and chatty debate but the truth is, we haven't seen each other face to face in six months. Perhaps we are different people now. There was an ever-so-brief momentary awkwardness.

It took only a stiff margarita and a few minutes before we were all cuddling, gossiping and back to our old selves. We have a heady eight days of work ahead of us so I count on tonight to set the tone for our team unity. I think this evidence indicates we'll be just fine. Oh yes, I'm already sure of it.

Weapon of Choice

Who doesn't love Christopher Walken? I know this video from Fatboy Slim is a few years old, but I never tire of watching Mr. Walken trip the light fantastic. Get down with your bad self, CW!

And I'm Off

I'm off to the fabled venue of San Jose, California tomorrow at 5 am for seven days worth of festivities associated with the very last module of last year's corporate management course. We have a big presentation to some rather important people on Sunday and we have a week's worth of mingling with very important global senior management types all week. I'm half terrified and half exhilarated but if my previous experiences at the other modules is any indication, I shall return back to my little burg on the Hudson enlightened, inspired, exhausted and with a whole new view of the business (and real) world. Hasta la vista, kids. Till tomorrow.

Disillusioned

There's a small part of me that still believes in the political American hero; the kind of protagonist best embodied in Jimmy Stewart in "Mr. Smith Goes to Washington." He's caught in the tangled web of politics and ambition, yet he genuinely believes in his heart the values of justice, ethics and democracy. He's the idealistic American and patriot and he fights against the tyranny of personal interest. That's a nice value which I hope might exist. Alas, in these convoluted days of lobbyists and personal interests, it's impossible to imagine.

When New York Attorney General Eliot Spitzer decided to run for Governor for the state of New York, I was thrilled. Through his tireless work as part of the New York District Attorney's office, he headed up the labor-racketeering unit to undermine organized crime. Soon elected to the office of Attorney General, Spitzer took on white collar crime and succeeded in prosecuting several high profile transgressions for insurance contingent commissions, SEC violations, price fixing and most of all, for nailing Dick Grasso, Chairman of the New York Stock Exchange. I was a fan of this legal crusader.

When former New York Governor George Pataki exhausted his term limit, Spitzer ran for and won the New York gubernatorial election in 2006. At last Our Everyman occupies New York's Gracie Mansion. As usual, I let my optimism get the best of me. Sometimes the stronger they are, the harder they fall.

And fall tonight did he. Hard.

Gov. Spitzer was indicted in an FBI sting of a high priced prostitution ring. Identified as client #9, my democratic crusader was shelling out five grand a night to cavort with expensive call girls, some as recently as a few weeks ago. The media is afire. I can only imagine the front of The New York Post tomorrow morning. Local politicos are demanding his resignation. The public is outraged. It's dreadful.

And this idealistic girl who still thinks we have American heroes? Let's just say I am mighty disillusioned.

The Guiltiest of Pleasures

I have a lot of guilty pleasures that I'll freely cop to: fried foods, Lifetime television movies when I have PMS, red licorice, US Weekly magazine and trashy gossip websites, a good find at H&M, summers in Fresno, bowling, salt pork, beer out of a can, trailer parks, Jerry Springer...the list is probably endless.

I confess the worst of my guilty pleasures is the skankiest of reality shows: "Rock of Love" on VH1. Now VH1 has to be the grandaddy of all sleazy reality programs. Look at their roster of sophisticated programming--"Flavor of Love," "I love New York," "Celebrity Rehab," "Scott Baio is 46 & Pregnant," "My Fair Brady," and "Celebrity Fit Club." That's entertainment, people!

I was drawn into the VH1 peripheral through "Tila Tequila's Shot At Love." The premise of a bi-sexual MySpace model trying to make a love-match choosing between a group of men and women was too enticing to pass up. I started rooting for a cute lesbian named Dani (below) to take the prize (that is, win Tila's heart), but in the end Tila passed up Dani for a guy. That was a bad call on Tila's part for in the end, the relationship failed and shortly, Tila will be back on VH1 with a new series "A Shot At Love 2." Of course. Should have gone with Dani, Tila.

My viewing habits with "A Shot of Love" led to my fondness for "Rock of Love." During the first season, I witnessed women (oh, let's be honest, the skankiest of the female sex) doing things that horrified and delighted me. This was the finest in white trash skanky ho-ism there is. I loyally followed the season and in the end our protagonist (that would be Bret Michaels, the lead singer of Poison) chose the right girl--the only decent soul amongst the wanton lot. Sadly, the girl of choice really did not care for Mr. Michaels. Bad for Bret; good for VH1. Hello, Season Two!

I tried to step away and wean myself from the trash fest that is this program but I just couldn't. Who can resist a reality show that offers such intriguing challenges as mud football, pig wrastling, building a motorcycle from scratch and stripping for 80 year old veterans at a USO show? That's to say nothing of the back biting cat fights that take place between the girls. Their profanity is as thick as the makeup caked all over their faces. I'd argue most of their breasts are silicon based and their clothing choices make the hookers on Melrose look like Park Avenue doyennes.

I'm not sure who Bret will finally chose in the end, but there's a down to earth girl named Ambre who appears to be intelligent, classy (as much as a girl can be in this environment) and a straight shooter. She's a little giddy sometimes for my taste but she seems to be the only one who has some substance to her.

Aw, who am I kidding? Brett's going to go for the worst choice. That only means there's a season three in my future.

Oh, My Aching Head

"I'm very brave generally, he went on in a low voice: only today I happen to have a headache." - Lewis Carroll

I suffer the occasional migraine headache. It generally comes on in times of acute stress and manifests itself with the same symptoms. At onset, my vision is immediately impaired. I can't focus my eyes and I see halos, light flashes and spots. Then my vision starts to quaver; that is, the peripheral is blurry and pulsing. I can't focus my eyes and I can't read. This is usually my sign to act. A duet of Advil usually quiets the visual noise and stops the migraine in its path. I've learned from experience that to ignore these symptoms results in a vicious pounding headache, nausea and absolute fatigue.

I'm fortunate that a few over the counter tablets can quell the noise. In comparison to those of my associates who are also migraine sufferers, mine is a mild case. One woman I know is such an acute case that she carries a cache of Imitrex with her at all times. When struck, she's more likely to spend the day in a dark room, overcome with nausea and curled in a fetal position. The Imitrex is only a band-aid for her. She's suffered her entire life and the frequency of these migraines has only intensified as she's gotten older. She occasionally has resorted to steroids to stave off the crushing pain. She's forever looking for new and better treatment options and like most profound sufferers of a malady, she's as well informed about migraines and treatment options as any physician.

My friend is an editor and she and I recently attended The Diamond Headache Institute Meeting in Phoenix. We were there for work reasons yet it was interesting (given our own personal interest) to be surrounded by the very top specialists in headache medicine. The doctors are passionate about the specialty; the development of even more complex medicines and homeopathic treatment options is fascinating. Even Botox is being used to treat acute headache sufferers (albeit the use is considered off-label which means Botox is not FDA approved for this particular application but it has proven effective when applied).

On the plane home from this meeting I was reading the latest issue of New York Magazine. They have a regular feature called "The Approval Matrix." This matrix charts culture's current greatest and lamest news. The axis are marked with "highbrow" and "lowbrow;" "brilliant" and "despicable." Plotted high on the "highbrow" and "brilliant" axis was the following: "The New York Times' surprisingly readable migraine blog." How timely was this?

I told my editor friend about it and she immediately found it a compelling read. And while not an acute migraine victim as she is, I also found myself reading it. It's detailed enough to inform but it's written for the layman. If you're dealing with migraines and have an interest in learning more, check out the New York Times Migraine Blog. It IS surprisingly readable and offers a multitude of related sites and resources.

White Like Me

Hollaback found this brilliant site the other day and sent me the link. What's not to like? She profiled it on her blog but in the rare instance you missed it, go and get your dose of honky. So worth it.

He Was Such a Nice Man

You know those usual newspaper quotes about serial killers? You know, the ones the neighbors of said madmen always offer up to the newspapers? They usually read, "He was quiet, kept to himself and always put his garbage out on time." Those are the people you never suspect of misdeeds...which is maybe why you should be suspicious of them.

Tonight when I rolled in from work, there was a notice from our co-op's Board of Directors. We get these flimsy missives on sheets of white paper shoved under our door all the time. Sometimes they are from The Board; sometimes they are from the disgruntled tenants in the building who have nothing better to do than shill some worthy cause (say, the indulgence of a bulletin board in the laundry room). The information wedged under my doorstop tonight made me gasp (no simple feat).

As I read it, I had to stop and re-read it. The information was simply not sinking in. This memo told the shareholders that one of our beloved doorman, a warm and affable chap named Raymond, had been fired. I couldn't imagine the reason why this effusive and charming man, one of my favorites, could possibly be released. As I continued reading the answer became clear. He was a registered sex offender and had done time in the pokey for the offense in the late 90s. WTF?

When confronted by The Board, Raymond admitted the offense but refused to resign. The memo went on to state "..in the interest of the safety and welfare of the residents of the building, we saw fit to terminate his employment."

Yikes.

I can't think about this too much (and his specific crime) but I have to admit I'll miss Raymond. He was such a nice man.

At least the gorgeous Juan is still on staff.

Pardon The Interruption

How can it be that these few days have slipped by and me without a blog post? Shameful, I know. Truth be told, I was out having some fun in the City by the Bay. I apologize for the lack of truth in premise (a post a day, that's all I promised). I have to confess the bright blue skies and mild sunny weather in California overwhelmed me. The trees were starting their springtime march of blooms. I was bewitched.

Regardless, I'm back in New York now so let's let bygones be bygones. It's time to catch up.

We have to start by celebrating celebrate Christian's victory last night as the King of "Project Runway." Despite his surprising display of emotion prior to this pronouncement, he really seemed like the man to beat. His collection on the runway was absolutely over the top and that's why I liked it. The ochre gown was simply outrageous. I confess--for all his fierceness and bravado you have to admit the boy is talented. I was thrilled by his win. During this visit, I stayed with my brother Marv and my sister-in-law MeiMei. Oh and their basenji, Nile, who hogged my bed every single night and snarfed at me if I dared to shift his sprawled corpse an inch to the left so that I might stretch out my legs. He does has the endearing quality of leaning his full body weight against you as if to soak up all your body heat; there is a sweetness about that gesture.

As I may have mentioned in previous posts, MeiMei does like her shopping. The girl is world class. Her clothes consumption has sucked up every square inch of available closet space in their home. The sprawl of shoe boxes, plastic bags stuffed with bounty and tagged (unworn) clothing has taken over several rooms of their home and half the garage. It is a source of endless frustration for my brother, so we decided to document it on Sunday night. Here is the growing mass in the garage...and the voluminous pile in the bedroom... This was the guestroom closet.The other side of the garage is represented here. More detail of the retail sprawl.
It's pointless to ask Marv about it. His reaction is always the same. It's nice to be home.

Freudian Slip

I'm going through a dress phase. It's so much easier to get dressed each day when you don't have to agonize over the top and bottom of outfitting. Whoever came up with that Garanimals idea for kids had the right idea.

I have a dress that I really love. It's a faux Missioni with black, teal blue and silver stripes. I have worn this dress several times and the very last time I wore it as I came in at the end of the day, Fang looked at me and said, "You know you can see through this dress, don't you?" Well, NO, I wasn't aware of that. The lighting in our apartment is such that one sometimes misses these rather important nuances when taking the last look before darting out the door. This explains why a male colleague of mine was staring at everything but my face the last time I wore this dress while we had a conversation. Who knew?!

I haven't worn the dress since but I have gone to a few department stores and a few other targeted venues to purchase--of all things--a slip. Now I haven't worn a slip since I was 16 years old. And gee, retail doesn't seem to sell this kind of antiquated object anymore. At Victoria's Secret, the twenty something sales clerk shrugged and told me, "No one wears slips anymore. Wear leggings under the dress." Uh--yeah. That'll work.

Here in San Francisco I found a shop tonight that actually sells tasteful lingerie, including slips. These are not your grandma's slips--these are delicately tailored in buttery silk with delicate lace trim. I bought a nice model in black to shield what little modesty I have left. And while I was there, I picked up some other lovely bits of lingerie. I mean, while I was there and all.

It's funny that I should have to go 2600 miles to find something to cover my bits.

Food Glorious Food

The one thing I love most about San Francisco (besides the proximity to some truly fine wineries--note Morewines' recommendations on these posts) is the excellent regional cuisine. Since moving to New York, I had hankered for some decent Mexican and Thai food. Today, I had both.

At lunch, I sampled a fiery Pad Thai. My eyes bled with its heat. It was marvelous. At dinner, a visit to the Mission district resulted in a satisfying plate of Mexican specialties including a cilantro heavy salsa and a sublime chile relano. Chased with a bottle of Dos Equis, I was in heaven.

Now if I can only squeeze in a slice of Amici's garlic chicken pizza before I head back East, I shall be most satisfied.

The Left Coast

This day has already been fraught with good things and bad things. To whit:

-My alarm went off on time at 4:15 am
-I only had about three and half hours sleep
-The car service was on time
-There was a terrible three car accident on the Van Wyck and we sat in traffic for 20 minutes
-I managed to get upgraded to business class on the flight
-I sat next to a very chatty and animated man who had an opinion on everything (fortunately he was in the fashion business so the conversation was very interesting, even if the duration was five hours)
-The flight arrived in San Francisco on time
-The airline lost my luggage (it STILL hasn't arrived)
-Marv and MeiMei met me at the airport
-Did I mention my luggage didn't arrive?
-We went to a favorite breakfast eatery for crab crepes
-They put avocado on the crepe (I know it's freakish, but I hate avocado)

We finally arrived at Marv and MeiMei's home and I was weighing the outcome of the first half of the day. I opened the door of their guestroom, opened the window, sucked in the fresh air of the 60 degree day and looked out on the view:
Then I looked down at their dog who has been glued to my side since my arrival (and whom I know will share the double bed with me for the duration of my visit.

You know, I think it's actually a very good day after all.